The ride back to the village was considerably less pleasant than the ride to Allhope House had been. The moonlight was all shut out by the clouds and it continued to rain, yet Dando rode as swiftly as his master, and at every moment I expected our headlong rush to end in broken necks.
A few lights appeared — the lights of a village. I got down from the black horse and turned to say something to Dando, whereupon I discovered that in that same instant of my dismounting he had caught up the reins of the black horse and was gone. I took one step and immediately fell over my trunk and parcels of books — which I presume had been left for me by Dando and which I had entirely forgot until that moment.
There seemed to be nothing close at hand but a few miserable cottages. Some distance off to the right half a dozen windows blazed with light, and their large size and regular appearance impressed me with ideas of warm rooms, supper tables, and comfortable sofas. In short they suggested the abode of a gentleman.
My knock was answered by a neat maidservant. I inquired whether this was Mr. Gathercole’s house. She replied that Admiral Gathercole had drowned six years ago. Was I the new Rector?
The neat maidservant left me in the hall to go and announce me to someone or other, and I had time to look about me. The floor was of ancient stone flags, very well swept, and the bright gleam upon every oak cabinet, every walnut chest of drawers, every little table, plainly spoke of the plentiful application of beeswax and of pleasant female industry. All was cleanliness, delicacy, elegance — which was more, I discovered, than could be said for me. I was well provided with all the various stains, smears, and general dishevelments that may be acquired by walking for hours through heavy rain, galloping through thickly wooded countryside, and then toiling long and hard at a childbed and a deathbed; and in addition I had acquired a sort of veneer of black grease — the inevitable result, I fancy, of a sojourn in John Hollyshoes’s house. The neat maidservant led me to a drawing-room where two ladies waited to see what sort of clergyman they had got. One rose with ponderous majesty and announced herself to be Mrs. Gathercole, the Admiral’s relict. The other lady was Mrs. Edmond, the Admiral’s sister.
An old-fashioned Pembroke-table had been spread with a white linen cloth for supper. And the supper was a good one. There was a dish of fricasseed chicken and another of scalloped oysters, there was apple tart, Wensleydale cheese, and a decanter of wine and glasses.
Mrs. Gathercole had my own letter, and another upon which I discerned the unappetising scrawl of Dr. Prothero. “Simonelli is an Italian name, is it not?” asked Mrs. Gathercole.
“It is, madam, but the bearer of the name whom you see before you is an Englishman.” She pressed me no further upon this point, and I was glad not to be obliged to repeat the one or two falsehoods I had already uttered that day.
She took up Dr. Prothero’s letter, read aloud one or two compliments upon my learning in a somewhat doubting tone, and began to speak of the house where I was to live. She said that when a house was for many years in the care of an ancient gentleman — as was the case here — it was liable to fall into a state of some dilapidation — she feared I would have a good many repairs to make and the expense would be very great, but as I was a gentleman of independent property, she supposed I would not mind it. She ran on in this manner and I stared into the fire. I was tired to death. But as I sat there I became conscious of something having been said which was not quite right, which it was my duty to correct as soon as possible. I stirred myself to speak. “Madam,” I said, “you labour under a misapprehension. I have no property.”
“Money, then,” she said. “Government bonds.”
“No, madam. Nothing.”
There was a short silence.
“Mr. Simonelli,” said Mrs. Gathercole, “this is a small parish and, for the most part, poor. The living yields no more than £50 a year. It is very far from providing an income to support a gentleman. You will not have enough money to live on.”
Too late I saw the perfidious Prothero’s design to immure me in poverty and obscurity. But what could I do? I had no money and no illusions that my numerous enemies at Cambridge, having once got rid of me, would ever allow me to return. I sighed and said something of my modest needs.
Mrs. Gathercole gave a short, uncheerful laugh. “You may think so, Mr. Simonelli, but your wife will think very differently when she understands how little she is to have for her housekeeping expences.”
“My wife, madam?” said I in some astonishment.
“You are a married man, are not you, Mr. Simonelli?”
“I, madam? No, madam!”
A silence of much longer duration.
“Well!” she said at last, “I do not know what to say. My instructions were clear enough, I think! A respectable, married man of private fortune. I cannot imagine what Prothero is thinking of. I have already refused the living of Allhope to one young man on the grounds of his unmarried state, but he at least has six hundred pounds a year.”
The other lady, Mrs. Edmond, now spoke for the first time. “What troubles me rather more,” she said, “is that Dr. Prothero appears to have sent us a scholar. Upperstone House is the only gentleman’s house in the parish. With the exception of Mrs. Gathercole’s own family, your parishioners will all be hill-farmers, shepherds, and tradesmen of the meanest sort. Your learning, Mr. Simonelli, will all be wasted here.”
I had nothing to say, and some of the despair I felt must have shewed in my face for both ladies became a little kinder. They told me that a room had been got ready for me at the Rectory, and Mrs. Edmond asked how long it had been since I had eaten. I confessed that I had had nothing since the night before. They invited me to share their supper and then watched as everything I touched — dainty china, white linen napkins — became covered with dark, greasy marks.
As the door closed behind me I heard Mrs. Edmond say, “Well, well. So that is Italian beauty! Quite remarkable. I do not think I ever saw an example of it before.”
Last night complete despair! This morning perfect hope and cheerfulness! New plans constantly bubbling up in my brain! What could be more calculated to raise the spirits than a bright autumn morning with a heavy dew? Everything is rich colour, intoxicating freshness, and sparkle!
I am excessively pleased with the Rectory — and hope that I may be allowed to keep it. It is an old stone house. The ceilings are low, the floor of every room is either higher or lower than the floors of neighbouring rooms, and there are more gables than chimneys. It has fourteen rooms! What in the world will I do with fourteen rooms?
I discovered Mr. Whitmore’s clothes in a cupboard. I had not, I confess, spared many thoughts for this old gentleman, but his clothes brought him vividly before me. Every bump and bulge of his ancient shoes betray their firm conviction that they still enclose his feet. His half-unravelled wig has not yet noticed that his poor old head is gone. The cloth of his long, pale coat is stretched and bagged, here to accommodate his sharp elbows, there to take account of the stoop of his shoulders. It was almost as if I had opened the cupboard and discovered Mr. Whitmore.
Someone calls me from the garden. …
Jemmy — the old man I spoke to yesterday — is dead. He was found this morning outside his cottage, struck clean in two from the crown of his head to his groin. Is it possible to conceive of anything more horrible? Curiously, in all the rain we had yesterday, no one remembers seeing any lightning. The funeral will be tomorrow. He was the first person I spoke to in Allhope, and my first duty will be to bury him.